When I was seventeen years old I found out that a terrific Dixieland Jazz band, The Firehouse Five Plus Two, was going to appear at a club in San Francisco. I was a huge fan, so I made plans to fly up and hear them perform. My intention was to stay just one night. This was about 52 years ago, so a lot of details about that trip are unclear.
I know I left from Burbank airport on a Friday (or maybe Saturday) afternoon, it was a fast trip. After I arrived I took a cab to my hotel and checked in. The idea was to get to the club in time for the group's first set at around 7:30 PM or so that evening. I had a few hours to kill until show time so I decided to go down and see a little of the city.
As I got down to the hotel lobby I suddenly felt someone touch my arm. It was a woman, quite a bit older than I, standing next to me who had undoubtedly been in the bar long enough to have had more than just a drink or two.
Smiling, she kept her hand on my arm and began what I thought was just an innocent conversation. I can't be sure of what was said exactly, probably something along the lines of "What brings you to San Francisco? How long do you plan to be in town?"
She was flirting with me. She had dark brown hair and deep penetrating eyes. She was not a beautiful woman, but she had a seductive way about her. As a young man I was flattered that this older lady was showing me so much attention.
The woman said how she hated using public restrooms and asked if she could use my bathroom upstairs. I agreed and we went up. The next thing I knew she was on top of me holding me down on the bed.
She was strong and determined and I was totally taken by surprise. I tried to wriggle my way free but she began to tear at my clothes in an attempt to undress me. I begged her to stop but she ignored my pleas, continuing to unbuckle my belt. I could smell the liquor on her breath as she laughed in an evil deep-throated way.
I had never encountered anything like this and it scared me to death. Then, all of a sudden I heard a clicking at the door and (just in the nick of time) a hotel maid came into the room.
The drunken woman was taken aback and jumped off of me instantly. She kept her head down so that the maid couldn't see her face then quickly exited my room and ran down the hall and out of my life.
The maid didn't know how to process all of this and decided that the best course would be to simply stick to her duties as though she saw nothing unusual. She quickly checked the towels in the bathroom then left without saying a word.
I never told anyone about this strange occurrence. I neither related it to the hotel, nor did I file a police report. I kept this whole sordid incident to myself.
Remember, I was only seventeen and had never experienced anything like this before, let alone with a woman almost old enough to be my mother.
This terrifying event stayed with me for a long time. Little did I know it would impact my entire life.
It wasn't until I went to a therapist many years later that I realized the seriousness of what happened to me.
After all of this time, now it can be told once and for all. Even though I can't be sure of the exact year, or the exact hotel, or the specifics of what lead up to the sexual assault, I do know one thing. I know who the woman was.
The woman who assaulted me was Senator Dianne Feinstein.
As a victim of an underage sexual assault I deserve to be heard and to be believed. The FBI needs to conduct a complete investigation on Senator Feinstein and get to the bottom of this. I am willing to appear at any hearings, as long as Ms. Feinstein testifies first. I really shouldn't have to testify at all actually, since it is not up to me to prove anything, it is the burden of Senator Feinstein to disprove what I am claiming. If she is innocent let her prove it.
I've told my story. I've done my part.
(The foregoing story is satirical and purely a work of fiction and has no relation to real life current events. Or does it?)